Washing Away The Blood
by Cardeia
Summary: What did Bors mean when he said that rain washes away all the blood? A short introspective on what it really meant.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.

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**Scribe Notes:**

This was in part inspired by Ailis-70's "Earthworms". It got me thinking about Bors in the rain, and the line he has about washing the blood away.

I think that line had more meaning that just getting clean. So I dug into Bors' mind, and here is what happened. I hope you enjoy!

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**_Washing Away the Blood_**

Bors stood, ankles creaking heavily under his greaves as he rose from retrieving one of his hand ­blades. His left hand flexed, realizing the old wound across his wrist had been the reason in which it had come loose and fallen during the fray. It hung limply from his other hand as he turned to survey the battleground around him. The other he had already sheathed, the blood from its edge dripping out the bottom of the leather scabbard at his waist, making patterns down his leg as it fell to the ground.

The earth was hungry for blood today. He wondered if Mithras was watching, eagerly licking his lips at the sight of so much. He would be proud of them this day, that God. So much sacrifice. He hoped it would be enough to sate him. He pictured Nudd walking amongst the dead, chop­ping off a hand on each body, wondered if the Irish Goddess Morrigan had come with him. The Valkryies entered his mind, and he snorted at the thought of those Norse Goddesses coming to claim the dead on this day.

So many religions, and such strange thoughts for a battle just passed. He scratched at his jaw, feeling the blood caking, and the dirt under his fingernails rubbing along his skin.

His chest rose and fell heavily as he calmed his breathing; his knees shook as he felt the blood­lust from battle slowly ebb out of his muscles. The ache behind his eyes was soon to follow, he knew it would, coming from clenching his jaw every time he swung a blade into an unsuspecting mans jaw, throat, shoulder. From yelling insults at the men he killed, to give him the strength to swing the blades forward once more.

The rage that would build in him at the sight of blood, the red veil over his eyes that he was powerless to stop each time, was gone now. It was replaced by fatigue, guilt, sorrow.

So many dead. So many sons, so many fathers. Lives he had taken, lives his companions had taken. Despite his brute force in battle, making him all but invincible to the enemy, he hated how he could callously take life. More than ever, at that moment, his warrior instinct fled, re­placed with the man. He wanted nothing more than to hold his infant son in his arms, his wife on his lap, a strong cup of ale in his hand. So far away, they were. So many sleeps to get home to them.

They were alive and warm, his family, and a wonderful thought to hold in his mind as he re­gained his bearings. The surrounding ground was littered with the dead and dieing.

He kept his gaze from their faces as he strode amongst the bodies towards Arthur and the rest of the men.

He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. He was getting too old to do this. He was getting slow­er. The muscle being replaced with fat that comes with old age. He was almost forty! Perhaps he could discuss with Arthur...

He blinked, and felt a trickle of something drip off his eyebrow and onto his cheek, stopping his deep thoughts as he walked. Muttering under his breath, he wiped it away, realizing as he did that it was not sweat, but blood. He ran his fingers up then, to his scalp, looking for the wound he assumed would be there.

It was not.

"Bors, you saw some fight, eh?" Lancelot chirped brightly as he joined them, his own armour soaked with blood, spatters of it across his face, his fighting style providing much the same re­sult as Bors. Veins in the neck spurted blood when cut. It was also a quick way to kill and move on.

An injured man could still throw a dagger. A dead one could not.

Bors then took in the appearance of his own armour. Covered in crimson sparkling blood, brains, bits of hair and skin. It glistened sickly in the sun as he moved, the scales of his cuirass stuck together into a wet heaving mass that restricted him more than any metal could. When he was young, this would have made him turn away and retch, peeling off the offending leather as fast as he could. Now...

Now it was merely a consequence of survival. He stuffed his emotion away into the pit of his stomach, the way he always did, and gave Lancelot a grin to hide it completely.

"Aye, and how many did you kill today, pretty boy?"

Lancelot snorted, his own grin equal to Bors'. "As many as you, you vulgar son of a whore."

"Snot-nosed weakling." Bors replied, the grin still plastered across his face, and hit his chest with his fist. "Your fancy whirling play toys have no way to keep up to me, so I highly doubt that."

The rest of the men laughed. Such was the routine after a battle between those two.

"Aye, that may be true Bors, but what about the other play toy your wife seems so interested in?" Gawain pointed comically towards Lancelot, who was pulling bits of something out of his hair.

Bors mock-threatened to charge at Gawain, who flapped his lips and chuckled. Bors winked.

"Vanora needs no play toy; she has all she can handle down there... I mean it's a..." He gestured to his crotch and raised his eyebrows, feeling the blood on his head crackle as he did so.

The men laughed more. "A baby arm holding an apple, yes Bors, we know..." came from Ga­wain.

Lancelot grinned further and slapped a hand across Bors' shoulders as he passed towards his own horse.

"Vanora will only pine for nothing. I am saving myself for Gawain's wife." He retorted, earning another noise through Gawain's lips in his direction, and a clod of dirt aimed at his head.

The banter continued as the men put away weapons, straightened armour, found their horses. It was soothing to be able to jest so casually, when all were, privately, dealing with the aftermath of killing and fighting. Bors never discussed how he felt with these men. Only Vanora would see his tears, his heartache, the loss he felt each time he came home, knowing he was able to come home, but those he killed would not.

To the men, he was a hardened old man who revelling in battle and loved the brutish force in which he was able to slay his opponent.

Oh, and the aftermath of bragging about it. That was always the way. He could not disappoint, or show his true feelings through. He had learned long ago how to hide them.

As he did now.

I wish to see the baths at the fort most desperately." Galahad said wistfully. More chuckling, and Gawain shook his head at his younger friend.

Galahad was, as usual, the cleanest, preferring to fight from his horse. He was red from the knee down, and his boots squelched as he walked towards his horse, rhythmically wiping his sword with the edge of his cloak. For him to be the most fervent for the baths was humorous indeed, and Bors gave him a cuff upside his ear.

"Young pup, we must get you properly blooded one of these days."

Galahad looked at him with blankly angry eyes. Bors muttered and patted his shoulder before he turned back to his own packs again.

Bors knew Galahad hated the killing so much, tried to stay as far away from those he struck as possible. He would get older, and that would slowly be replaced with the need to survive, and he would learn to cope with staring into his enemy's eyes as he gutted them. Bors remembered how much the killing affected him, he should do well to be more understanding.

But, it would not be what he needed right then. He shoved the thoughts away again. Time for reflection later. The knights were beginning to mount, and Bors patted his horse's neck, leaving bloodstains on the dark hair.

"Good lad, you kept yourself well."

The horse snorted in response, backing off a bit from him. The stench would be overwhelming for the horse, he knew. He held the reins fast, patting more, calming. The horse, understanding it must remain while wanting to run from the smell of death, calmed and stood, letting Bors lean on him a moment. He was tired... the ache behind his eyes was here now.

Arthur was standing apart from the group, giving orders to one of the guard to begin the clean-up. Arthur never left a battle without first seeing to the honour of the dead. Bors stood and watched him pointing, gesturing, nodding. Most commanders would leave the battleground to rot, let the families of the enemy come and salvage what they could. But Arthur was not one to be messy. At least in his strategy of war.

Arthur's own armour was glistening with blood, a gash in his trews showed bright white skin underneath. His large sword swung across his hip as he turned. He looked pinched, his eyes showing the haunting that his Christian belief pushed into them, showing the dark circles under the blood splashes. Bors could see the guilt that they shared, which only Arthur would openly apologize for. The "praying" he would do to absolve his sins. The belief that he was destined for his Hell if he did not pray and prostrate himself to a God that may or may not be listening.

Bors hated Christians and their simpering obeisance to their "One God".

All but his commander. Arthur was a good man, if not misled in his belief of a God that was not of the earth, the sky, fire and living things. Arthur, as opposed to the Roman commanders they had endured over the years, allowed them their own faiths. Never once did he ask them to convert to his beliefs, or push his praying on them. Bors grunted and wiped more blood from his arms. It was thick, congealing as the air dried it to skin. All he managed to do, he assumed, was smear it across his skin further.

Most Christians were vocal in their belief. Arthur was most private. And Bors appreciated that. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and nodded as Arthur acknowledged him. The si­lent exchange between them showing their mutual relief that the other was standing.

He reminded himself to pour a bit of ale onto his weapons this night to thank Govannon for sur­viving the battle. He also briefly wondered if he should ask Manawydan or Boann for rain, to let them bathe. He could ask both, but that might incite a storm larger than he wanted to weather right at this moment.

Up on the high moors, there were no lakes or rivers to wash in. Just rocks and scrub. Endless rocks and scrub. Inhospitable and barren. It suited the battle well. Next year if they rode past here, there would be fresh growth of ground cover and flowers, with only the remnants of what took place.

Bors grumbled loudly from his chest and slumped his shoulders. It had been a long battle, and he should not be thinking such thoughts now, with more work yet to do. They were all weary, but he knew that Arthur would push them to ride a fair bit to get away from the smell of the dieing, the smell of the burning bodies. Arthur hated camping near a battle site. Truthfully, it was shared by most of the knights.

However, Bors just wanted, at that moment, to plant his arse on the ground and have a skin of wine. He did not want to clamber up into the saddle and bump his way over rocky moor ground to find a place to camp. He wanted to laugh and regale about the battle with Dagonet, share a bit of comfort after such brutal surroundings.

And rest his tired bones.

As if his thoughts were mirrored, Dagonet came up beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. The warmth of his closest friend was all Bors needed to smile once more and he returned the gesture.

"Dag, you big brute, where you been? We got ridin' to do if we ever want to see some food."

Dagonet smiled and handed Bors a wineskin.

"Here. Drink. We will be a few more moments yet."

The two stood in companionable silence as they watched the knights set themselves into saddles, adjust saddles, move their horses about. They passed the wineskin back and forth, draining it completely. The knights were grouped together now.

Tristan mounted and threw his hawk to the air to find them shelter for the evening, Arthur mounted and paced his big grey about, making sure all was taken care of. Gawain, Galahad and Lancelot jostling their tired horses, laughing, poking at one another with barbs.

"Would be nice to have some rain." Dagonet mused quietly, looking towards the sky as he mounted.

Bors grunted once more and pulled his horse towards a large rock. He heaved himself up onto it, and placed his foot in the stirrup. He flopped forward into his tack as he swung a leg over, feeling more blood crackle and pull at his arm hair, the leather of his armour drying tightly and shrinking around his thighs. He settled his legs around the horse and nodded, his gaze now going to the sky as well, squinting to read the clouds. The horse moved under him, anxious to be away from the dead.

"Would be nice to wash all this damned blood off, eh?"

The barked order form Arthur brought his thoughts back. They struck off, settling into forma­tion, tack and armour jingling as they spurred forward into a canter, leaving the guard behind to clean the mess, gather the spoils of war.

Bors turned once more to look behind him as they rode away from the battle. There was another reason for rain to come tonight, for the storms to rip across the sky. To cleanse the earth, and in some way, absolve him from the guilt he felt for spilling blood needlessly on it. To begin the regrowth, and provide some good from what they had done.

He sent his thoughts quickly to Boann for the rain to come to the souls laying behind him, then shut his mind to all but riding, a hot dinner over the fire, some ale to drink, and a soft spot to sleep.

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**Dear Reader:**

I have mixed some Celtic gods in to give Bors some deeper religion, to provide some reason for his wanting rain. I hope it worked. He is older, he may have had more exposure to Celtic lore and Gods from his childhood, and may hold on to them more as a result. Just a thought I played with.

I also wanted him to know of other Gods. He has a large family. Iam sure he tells stories to the children about the Gods to put them to bed. I know that there will be people out there who will say "Thats not right, and they weren't Celts" but I know that the Celtish religion spanned a vast tract of land from Britain to the Steppes, so the Gods could very well have been shared by the Sarmatian people. Since we have no way of knowing this, I take creative license, and added in some of the Celtish Gods and Goddesses I knew about. They could have also been Germanic.

Loki would be appealing as the patron god ofGawain,wouldn't you think? Or Frigg, for Lancelot, perhaps. Dag would most definitely be akin to Thor. Oi.. I prattle...

To explain the Gods and Goddesses I did include: Boann is a God of water. Manawydan is the God of the sea and of storms. Mithras is considered a God of war, and Govannon was the God of weapons and ale. Ludd, as the stories go, was a God maimed in battle, and lost a hand.

Morrigan was an Irish Goddess of war, and the Valkryies are a Norse legend of women on horseback who would ride into battle with warriors and choose the dead to take away.

I hope you enjoyed. Please do let me know if I caught the aftermath of battle for Bors well. I have longed to write him a bit more deeply, and I really reveled in bringing his emotional side out just a bit. Bors does show emotion, and we saw some ofthis when Dagonet died, but what are his thoughts when he is with the men, after a battle, tired and ready for home? the stuff he does not share with the men, and only with his Vanora, when alone?

Thank you for reading, and thank you Ailis-70, for bringing rain and Bors into my head! Your "Earthworms" really gave me inspiration for this small diversion.

_Cardeia_


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